


Homes, Places We've Grown - All of Us are Done for

by withlightning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Het, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-24
Updated: 2010-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 04:03:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/120535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back, Sam finds it oddly appropriate that Dean finally found his faith in the form of a fallen angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homes, Places We've Grown - All of Us are Done for

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. If you've seen S4, you're good to go  
> 2\. Title from Coldplay's song [Don't Panic](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4w7an00vGI)
> 
> 3\. Originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/withthunder/1010.html#cutid1), October 19th 2009

"Look man, it's been almost ten years."

Dean keeps his face impassive and stares in the distance, seemingly grateful for the sunglasses shading his eyes.

"I'm not saying this just to be a dick. I'm positive he would have come back by now if he was able."

Dean's jaw clenches, making the rapidly spreading silvery hair on his temples glisten in the last rays of sun.

The silence stretches and it's not comfortable one.

"Have you considered—"

"Yes," Dean interrupts.

Sam continues after a beat, "But that doesn't mean –"

"No." That's all Dean says, still staring at the distance.

Sam wishes there was something he could say. He finds nothing. He thinks about Mindy and Jenny, many states away, waiting for him to come home. He can taste the peppermint cookies on his tongue, hear the laughter of Jenny and feel Mindy's arms around his middle, safe and secure. His heart soars with the thought of _home_.

If Dean's fingers sweep under his shades when he stands up, no one mentions it.

Sam opens the driver side door and sits in. Dean takes a deep breath, joins him and Sam revs up the engine, cringing at the way rock pebbles hit the tail of the car.

  
*

  
Sometimes Sam can see it. Sometimes it's clearly written on Dean's face. The loss, the hopelessness, the devastation that has been gnawing his brother for years. He's subdued and miserable, hardened and angry – and Sam never wanted any of those to happen to Dean, none of those things. Most of the times, though, Dean's just plain Dean. He still jokes around, tries to make Sam's life hard and bearable, he goofs around with Jenny – being the perfect uncle, and he still loves pie. Sam can't help the feeling that pie and Jenny are the only things Dean loves these days.

Sometimes Sam feels bad about having permanent happiness in his life. He never thought he could have a wife and a perfect kid to seal the deal. He wouldn't change that for anything and it keeps killing a part of him, deep inside.

In Sam's mind there's _before_ and _after_. What happened between isn't something they talk about. Between consist of Hell and Heaven, of the apocalypse, of brief hope and of Dean's change – and if that wasn't a kick, Sam didn't know what was. Dean's change after he came back from hell, all the attitude lost somewhere, no more one night stands - the way he couldn't trust Sam anymore and how everything seemed to fall apart – only so that Sam could realize how much Dean had changed _after_. Once, Sam was certain Dean was crying. On the bed, where he was laying, in the dark, he heard Dean's breath hitching and rapid exhales. The day hadn't been too hard, nothing special had happened, just the same old crap they had had before.

Sam was glad. Since…well, ever since the world was saved, Lucifer was defeated, all that, Dean had not cried. Not once. Sam, on the other hand wept the first two years, what seemed like constantly. Over different things: things that couldn't be changed, things that would always be there, between him and Dean. Dean didn't cry. Didn't cry, didn't anything – he was angry and _sad_ and that was that. It was business like usual.

He still doesn't know what brought Dean's mood on but in the morning his brother's eyes were dry, no traces of shed tears and Sam, well, he felt that much more betrayed.

  
*

  
Sam thinks Dean must have loved his angel. Really loved, because he can't see Dean being the way he is over Bobby getting his legs back or over Pamela dying or over Sam finding something else in his life than hunting and Dean. No, it's all Castiel.

Sam was pretty out of it when it all happened. He has fuzzy images of lying on the floor, brightness so strong it hurt his eyes, high whine hurting his head and in the middle of the light was Dean and Castiel. He remembers seeing Dean there, standing, all bloodied and defiant, looking straight at Castiel, who was _wrong_ somehow. He saw Castiel lifting one hand to palm Dean's dirty cheek and Dean turning his head into the hand ever so slightly, closing his eyes for a moment, as if to savor the touch – only to snap his eyes open when Castiel said something and smiled, honest to God, smiled and Dean smiled back and that was the point when Sam had to hide his head under his arms. When he next opened his eyes, there was Dean, crumbled on the floor, cradling Castiel's – what used to be Jimmy's – body, rocking it, arms around the torso, whispering something, over and over again in the shell of Castiel's ear. Sam limped his way to them, sat down and put one tentative hand on Dean's shoulder and felt better when it wasn't being shrugged off instantly.

They buried Castiel's body in the desert, in Arizona, near Grand Canyon. Sam drove the whole way, Dean on the back seat, still holding on tightly. The drive wasn't long from Las Vegas, it took them few hours to find the spot Dean wanted. When Sam took the shovel, intending to start digging, Dean laid the body down gently and said gruffly, "I'll do it." Sam stepped back and let Dean dig the grave, keeping an eye out for curious by passers that might drift on their location. Dean dug for hours, never complaining, never making a sound. When it was done, he hoisted up the body like it weighted nothing and cradled Castiel's head on his shoulder for a moment, mumbled something and dropped the body unceremoniously and covered it with dirt. It was dark when he was completely done and Sam offered Dean a bottle of water which he took.

They sat like that, Sam closer to the car and Dean staring in the darkness of the valley, up to the point when Dean said, "You think we oughta go back to Bobby's?"

Sam closed his eyes and gave a quick prayer, very well knowing that God was absent, and stood up. "I think he'd like that."

Dean said nothing, just closed the distance, leaving the shovel behind and swept his hand on the hood of his beloved car before opening the door and starting the engine.

They never spoke any of it. Not on their way to Bobby's, not while being there, not when they left to hunt. Ten years later, they haven't talked about it and Sam knows they never will. Dean wants to keep Castiel to himself and Sam can't blame him. Dean should have something for himself and if that something is a ghost of an angel, so be it.

  
*

  
They spend two weeks at Bobby's and Sam is happy. He's happier than he's been in months. Even Bobby smiles when Sam rushes to catch giggling Jenny and crushes her to his chest, feeling the happiness bubbling and breaking free. When he closes his arms around Mindy's slender frame, breathing her in, hearing Jenny's squeals of laughter and Dean's subdued chuckles, he thinks about never leaving again.

Sam once made a promise to his newlywed wife. Promise to stand by her, promise to _be_ there. He wishes he could keep that promise. There's no one in the world he'd trust as much as he trusts Dean and Bobby and he's glad Bobby likes having Mindy and Jenny at his place, safe and sound.

One early Sunday morning finds its way to Sam in a form of newspaper full of available houses near the area. Sam skims through them absent-mindedly, cup of coffee cooling by his side, enjoying the clear, chill air on Bobby's terrace. Everyone's asleep inside the house and he revels the silence, the way he feels himself small and unimportant in the surrounding quietness and mist. He's about to turn page when he sees the perfect house. The house needs some renovation and his fingers tingle at the thought of painting and boarding, of Mindy tending their garden and Jenny playing outside with a dog, a Golden Retriever – child friendly dog, Sam remembers – whose naming will be all Jenny's job and Sam laughs quietly at that, at how Tinkerbell would be unsuitable name for a dog that big. He lifts his coffee and is about to take a sip when he hears rustling in front of him, about fifty feet into the mist. Hating his reflexes, he's on alert but relaxes quickly as he realizes it's only Dean. Dean, who's kneeling on the ground, lifting fistfuls of dirt and letting it slide between his fingers, repeating the motion over and over again. Sam's afraid to move, he doesn't want to break the spell because he has never seen Dean done what he's doing before. Sam wonders briefly if Dean has lost his mind and feels bad about his thought a second later. It's just that Dean's so different. So absent. So dead inside and it breaks Sam's heart – there's nothing he can do to ease the pain. And he feels so bad, so goddamn awful for thinking about his own life ahead, about his own family and their future, not Dean's future. He guesses that's what growing up means, dividing and setting your priorities up to date.

He stands up silently and goes back inside, not without glancing at Dean first. He's still there, on his knees and watching the dirt falling from his dirty hand back to ground, head cast down while he's taking heaving breaths. Sam sighs painfully, something twisting in his chest and he turns the door handle.

  
*

  
Sam has made up his mind, he wants out. He thinks Dean should be able to understand. Still, he finds it almost impossible to break the news. It feels like another betrayal on top of the others and Sam thinks Dean's had enough of those. More than enough and he doesn't want to add any grief if he can help it and that's why Sam agrees to do another job with Dean. If he's honest, it is third job after he made up his mind and so far Mindy's been accepting and that's another thing, Sam can't let being a Winchester take away every good thing in his life. It's a curse, he knows. It's a curse and so far no one has been able to dodge it, not his mother, not his father, not Dean and not him. He knows it was never his father's or mother's fault; it was all just a sum of too much love and random bad stuff. It doesn't change the fact that Sam is scared out of his mind when he thinks about Jenny and the life that has been laid out in front of her, only by being Sam Winchester's daughter. He really, really needs to get out, live a life he once dreamed of, normal, safe life full of laughter and love and stupid miscellaneous fights and make-ups with light kisses and blueberry pancakes in the mornings with cold milk.

Sam sums it up as _life_.

  
*

  
They're driving back to South Dakota, just over the state border when Dean says he wants to stop and Sam has nothing against it, after all, they had been driving close to five hours, straight. They end up in a small, nameless town and park the Impala next to the only store available. Stepping out of the car, joints cracking and popping as they stretch and Dean lifts his thumb and jerks it in the direction of the store. He doesn't wait Sam's acknowledgement, just pushes the door open nonchalantly and disappears inside.

Sam waits for Dean patiently, on the hood of the Impala, closing his eyes against the shining sun and wishes.

"Excuse me," someone says and Sam's eyes snap open. Adjusting his vision he sees a man, around forty years old, tallish, not like Sam is, more like Dean's height. The man has the bluest eyes Sam has ever seen, except maybe for… Oh well. He clears his head with a little shake.

"Yes?" Sam asks politely, still scrutinizing the man.

"I'm looking for someone," the man says with careful articulation.

"Alright, you peg I can help you?" Sam asks, raising his eyebrow.

 

The man looks at Sam, blinking his eyes in a way that looks like he's not used to do that, the blinking obviously distracting his thinking. Sam feels something strangely familiar building in the pit of his stomach.

"Yes, I'm hoping you might. Although, to be sure, I don't know why." The man says, squints his eyes and then takes a step back, closes his eyes for a moment and obviously leaves the weird part of his head space. Sam is getting really strong feeling here.

"Why don't you tell me your name?" Sam asks, friendly.

The man is seemingly confused for a moment and then says, "John Beaumont."

Sam clasps his hands together and says, "Well then, John. Who are you looking for?"

John is about to answer as he digs out a piece of crumpled paper, opens his mouth but is interrupted as Dean opens the door and leaves the store, looking at Sam and saying, "I'm never ever buying tequila, ever again. Did you know that—" and stops altogether when he sees John, few feet away from Sam, standing rigidly, the paper in his fist, fingers white with extension.

Sam swears the time stands still.

John just stares at Dean and Dean does the same. Sam shifts his gaze between them like he's watching a tennis match, not knowing who to look at. He sees Dean breathing rapidly and blinking his eyes, lower lip trembling with what must be an effort to keep a sob escaping. John's eyes are wide open, mouth agape and it seems like he tries to say something, repeatedly but no words are coming out. Dean holds the bag in his out-stretched hand, eyes never straining from John's and Sam takes the bag, noticing how Dean's hand is trembling.

Sam feels like he should leave, like he's witnessing something incredibly intimate that's not for him. He stays, because this is the first time in ten years he has seen Dean show real emotion. And Sam knows. He just knows.

Dean takes one tentative step closer to John, who keeps standing still, blue eyes glistening as he stares at Dean.

"It's you," John says in wonderment, his head tilting in a way that makes the sob escape and Dean makes choked sound.

Sam feels his heart beating wildly in his chest, the acrid taste of adrenaline crawling up his throat and he has to swallow down all the million emotions he feels.

Dean's green eyes glisten and sparkle and the freckles on his face are positively glowing when he confirms, "Yeah, it's me." He takes another step closer and reaches out a hand, carefully touching John's bicep before curling his fingers around it, thumb rubbing back and forth in a way that Sam suspects Dean isn't even aware of. John lifts his hand and covers Dean's clutching one with his own, Dean watching the movement with wide eyes before lifting his gaze back to John's open and soft face and says gruffly, blinking his eyes rapidly, "Oh God, how I missed you."

"Now you have me." John states matter of fact, nods and there's a small tremor in his deep voice. Then he just _reels_ Dean in, both holding on each other for what it's worth.

Sam sees behind his blurring vision how Dean nuzzles John's neck discreetly, eyes closed, letting his other senses take control. He leans against John, whose hand is making soothing circles on Dean's back and after a while Dean breathes out one word with a broken, choked voice, " _Cas._ " And holds on tighter.

Sam smiles brilliantly.

  
*

  
Looking back, Sam finds it oddly appropriate that Dean finally found his faith in the form of a fallen angel. The angel, who made the choice to have faith in Dean and for some reason that makes Sam believe there might be a God after all, among all the destruction and unworthiness, hate and jealousy. He's not too eager to find out, though – for once he's content and willing to have faith in himself, to have faith in _life_.

  
\- Fin


End file.
